The doctor raised an eyebrow, and looked briefly back at Savannah and Davidson.
“Miss Frost is a magical tattooist,” Davidson said. “Her tattoos do move.”
“Well, I’ll be,” the doctor said, turning back to me. “Dakota, my name is Doctor Blake. I’m an orthopedic surgeon. Doctor Hampton called me in to work on your knee because it was torn up inside. You may not remember everything that happened—”
“A vampire beat the shit out of me and kicked me in my knee when I was down.”
He smiled, a wry, boy-I’d-like-to-get-that-fucker smile if I’ve ever seen one. “Well, Dakota, when he did that he tore the ligament on the inside of your knee—what we call your MCL. It was on the edge of what we call a grade four tear, with some collateral damage, so I had to go in to your leg, do some minor arthroscopy—but it looks good. If we can keep you off the leg for a few days, we can have you up on crutches within a week. We’ve got to watch it, of course, but with some rest, ice, and therapy, I think you’ll regain full use of your knee.”
“Oh fuck,” I said. “How the hell am I going to pay for all this?”
“Don’t you have healthcare at the tattoo parlor?” Davidson said.
I lifted my head to look at him. “Are you kidding?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Savannah said. “You were under our protection. The Consulate will pay for everything.”
“The ‘Consulate?’” the doctor asked.
“The Vampire Consulate of Little Five Points,” Savannah said. “That collar of hers is a sign of our protection.” Her voice grew icy. “It should have been enough of a warning.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Doctor Blake said, smile a little more forced. “When she said vampire I thought she was just being metaphorical.”
“Doc,” I said. “About my hand—”
“Well, you had a lot of bruises and scrapes, which is common when some son-of-a-bitch kicks you when you’re down. And I won’t lie to you—you’re going to get some ugly looking facial swelling over the next few days. You’ll get even prettier than you are now.”
“Hard to believe,” Savannah said. I laughed, halfheartedly.
“But, on your hand, there were… cuts,” he said. “Do you remember what happened—”
I looked up, saw my fingers in the curved beak of the pruner, and his unsmiling face. “I can walk away from here with ALL your fingers and leave you with stumps. I’ll put them in the blender when I get home, one by one, and think of your stumps. You’ll never tattoo again.”
“He—he had some pruning shears,” I said, eyes tearing up, unable to catch my breath, feeling my heart race and a charge of adrenaline tingle up my spine and churn my gut. “He got my fingers in them. He got my fingers and he squeezed—“
“Lord have mercy,” Savannah said.
“He said he could take them any time,” I said. I didn’t bother to hide the tears leaking out of my eyes. “My fingers. All of them. That he’d leave me with meat flippers if I crossed him. That I’d never tattoo again—”
“The police will take a statement later, I think,” Davidson said, in his supremely calm voice, stepping forward to put his hand on the bed in a way that made me feel like he’d put his arm around my shoulders. “You don’t need to go into all the details now—”
“That’s right, Dakota,” the doctor said, reaching out to touch my bandaged hand. “I’ve heard enough. Your hand is fine. You will tattoo again. And you have good friends. They’re good people. I don’t think they’ll let anyone hurt you again.”
He squeezed my hand very gently, emphasizing it, as if to let me know everything would be all right. I winced a little, but I could feel my hand was still whole. The doc was all right. He was all right. But the effort to smile made my head hurt, and I reached up to rub my temple.
My Mohawk was gone.
My forehead, cheek and temple were bandages, scrapes and bruises, but beyond that there was no ‘hawk, just a ragged brush of hair. I tore my bandaged hand out of his grip and raised it to my head, groaning, afraid to touch it. It was almost completely shaved in front, and behind that only tufts of hair were left, like someone had weedwhacked the front of my head. Only the hair at the back of my head had been wholly spared. “Awwwww—”